Ghazal
My salvation
Your body, oh woman,
A green meadow.
My health
Your body, oh woman,
Scorching noon on a branch.
My hatred
Your body, oh woman,
Evening fallen on its knees.
Oh woman, oh woman, deep sea.
Ghazal
My salvation
Your body, oh woman,
A green meadow.
My health
Your body, oh woman,
Scorching noon on a branch.
My hatred
Your body, oh woman,
Evening fallen on its knees.
Oh woman, oh woman, deep sea.
The unknown
What a beautiful bird
But the hunter
blind
and mute
Te dyja poezite flasin per mjeshterine e poezise se Ali Podrimes, megjithese ne anglisht.
Faleminderit qe i solle ne forum ASD!
Mos shkruaj gjë kur je me nerva, sepse, ndërsa plaga e gjuhës është më e keqe se e shpatës, mendo ç’ka mund të jetë ajo e pendës
Go back to Homer's verse
Go back to Homer's verse
Go back to where you came from
This is not your age go back
Free men from themselves
And shadows free them from masks
And flights free them from insomnia
And silence free them from fever
And rain this is not your age
Go back to Homer's verse
Troy has fallen and long has it been
Since men have sung the Marseillaise
Rain in a legend
If I throw a stone into the river
Silence runs a fever
If I sing an ancient song
Silence is overcome by insomnia
If I look for myself in a game
Silence has a headache
It rains and rains
In a legend now and forever
Paris, native land
We'll go to Paris
There we shall lay our stone
Teuta, Genti will not be expecting us
The savage Roman hordes will not be expecting us
No one will be expecting us
To Paris we shall go
We shall hang our dreams on stork wings
At a fountain we shall wash our eyes, our wart-covered hands
We shall leave the Balkan nights behind us
the dances, the songs, the ballads, the tales
The flute alone we shall take with us
To play whenever we are homesick
when we get lost in the crowds of drunks
in the shadows
amongst the rats
Late at night in the streets of Paris in the frantic metro
We shall smell the fragrance of the quince from our native land
With our fingers we will talk of vile times
We shall not step on any ants
We shall not frighten any birds
We shall vent neither hellfire nor spleen
upon the head of man
We shall not bow to a torpid Europe
nor to any deranged gods
Promise me Lum Lumi
That we will not forget our native land
(Paris 1981)
[Parisi, vendlindja, from the volume Lum Lumi, Prishtina: Rilindja 1982, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 125]
In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, for that's how heart finds its morning and is refreshed.
It is the Albanian's fault
It is the Albanian's fault
That he breathes
And walks on two legs
That I take tranquillizers
And swat flies all day
In the Toilet
It is the Albanian's fault
That he besmirches your wife
And frightens my family
That my hand cannot reach the apple
On the highest branch
That he has filled the Well with dead words
It is the Albanian's fault
That not more of Turkey exists,
More of America of Norway
That the Gulag is so far away
That they chose me and sent me
To sniff him out
Does death smell
It is all the more the Albanian's fault
That he does not eat
Or close his eyes and sleep
That our sewers are broken
And the Catacombs of the Balkans
Have fallen into ruins
It is the Albanian's fault
That he whiles away the time under the moon
And breaks windows and stirs up muddy water
That he speaks Albanian that he eats Albanian
that he shits Albanian
It is the Albanian's fault
The Albanian is the one at fault
For all my undoings
Both for my broken tooth
And for my frozen smile
So therefore: BULLET
Ha ha ha
Ha ha
Ha
May God have mercy!
[Fajtor është shqiptari, from the volume Fund i gezuar, Prishtina: Rilindja 1988, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 193]
In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, for that's how heart finds its morning and is refreshed.
Or, or
Should you long
to see Albanians
Go down to the train station in a big city
Worn-out shoes they wear
And white socks
Or or
On Marienplatz or at the Eiffel Tower
just whistle a heroic tune
Into a circle you go
there you have them all those rigid faces
But do not be frightened off
For solitude can make you sick
That awesome brutality of cement
(Munich, 18 April 1992)
[Ose,ose, from the volume Buzëqeshje në kafaz, Tirana, Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve 1993, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 243]
In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, for that's how heart finds its morning and is refreshed.
The black cat
On my journey
A black cat follows me
And my soul says to me
You'll get stuck half way
And the song says to me
You'll never sing me aloud
And the light says to me
The blind man is still blind
And the dream says to me
Look for me awake
So come and say the word
When you don't know whom you love or hate
Come and believe the face in the mirror
A black cat follows me
On my journey
It will dictate the final hour
The illness of my family
for my father Hamzë Podrimja
My father God bless him died of a stomach ulcer
Before having his say about Love and Mankind
My mother God bless her thrice was operated in the Hospital
Thrice the Wolf howled around our house
A tumour in my brother burst into madness
He gave up the ghost beside a fountain when no one was watching
My sister we buried three meters deep
In the shade of a poplar we buried her one summer's evening
With all the pus of a filthy world
I, I shall wander a planet drowned in dreams
Farther and farther I shall flee from the blood and the self
If my nerves are altered in the tambourine of time
Oh illness of my family
Confounded game
Of fate.
Regullat e Postimit
Përgjigju Duke Cituar
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